Masuk
I had decided a long time ago that I was finally done with relationships. Fuck! They don't favor me. It's either I'm being played, cheated on, or seen as garbage.
“This can't work between us, El. You can't even stay long when I fuck you.” Those were the exact words I got from all my exes.
I always wanted to take time to explore my body secretly and play the good girl my dad wanted me to be. My dad had no idea what kind of daughter he had. Anyways, I never felt good having sex with any guy.
Stacy had always told me how satisfying it was being sucked and fucked by her boyfriend and how she enjoyed every bit of it, cuming all over.
No more relationships. I said, sliding out my phone from my pocket. The screen glared at me as I gently scrolled through the gallery. There were several pictures and videos I had taken with James—the last guy I broke up with.
“El!" My dad's voice roared from downstairs pulling me out of grieviance. My hands hovered around my phone, anger showing over me.
Delete images? The option popped up on the screen.
Delete forever. I said, deleting all the pictures and videos I had with James. They didn't matter anymore.
Psychopath.
"El! Come downstairs. They are pulling into our street.” Days like these were so special to my dad. After we had lost my mom two years ago.
Right. His new wife—Elena and daughter were moving in today. And my dad had specifically stated that I welcomed them warmly.
Rolling out of my bed, I took a little tissue, damped my face from looking like someone who's heart was just shattered.
I glided out of my room, walking downstairs. My dad stood close the window, head popped outside. He always mentioned how he loves Elena and I had never met her in person.
Just then, a car screeched to a halt in front of our house. My dad adjusted his clothes.
"How do I look El?" His voice cracked, anxiety spiraling.
I smiled slightly. “You look amazing, dad."
“Okay. Remember, welcome them warmly."
Our head spun to the direction of the door when it creaked open. An elegant woman in her 30s walked in, face bright like the rays of sun, beautiful doe eyes. She must be Elena. I thought to myself.
My dad pulled her into a hug, squeezing her ass and kissing her intensely.
“Dad." I muttered gently only to his hearing. He coughed slightly, adjusting his arms.
I narrowed my gaze to Elena. “You're welcome Ms. El—"
My breath caught. I had never seen such a hot, badass girl.
A young girl walked in. That must be Elena’s daughter—My step sister. She moved with slow, confident steps. Her hips swayed side to side, making her short skirt ride up her smooth thighs. Her round ass and full breasts bounced gently with each stride. The tight top clung to her curves, showing hard nipples.
Her long hair swung over her shoulder. She looked straight at me with a naughty smile. Every step was sexy and powerful, like she owned the room. Heat came off her body. She stopped close, her hand sliding down her thigh.
She was pure desire — strong, beautiful, and ready to tease.
“Hi step dad. Hi step sister." She said scanning through the house. I couldn't utter a word. My eyes, still staring at her nipples plunging out from her white crop top.
Stop this El. I muttered under my breath.
"Welcome to our house. I'm El.”
She stepped towards me, my heart beat raced. The moment she pulled me into a tight hug, her soft, full breasts pressed hard against my chest. The warm, firm flesh squished gently as she squeezed me closer. Her hard nipples rubbed my body through her thin top.
Instantly, I got wet. A hot rush of wetness soaked my panties. My pussy throbbed with sudden need. I breathed faster, my body warm and soft against mine. Her hips shifted a little, pushing her breasts deeper into me.
The hug felt electric. Her scent filled my nose. She held on longer than normal, clearly enjoying the feel of her tits on me.
Wait, what's that under my thighs. I'm actually wet for a girl. I pushed her slightly away from me, maintaining a smile.
“Zee." A smile formed on her face. “I'm Zee Michael."
I nodded firmly, touching my hair strand. “I'll show you to your room."
Dad had already walked into his room with his wife, leaving Zee with me. I'll be fine with her.
I gently took Zee’s hand and led her toward the staircase. Gently, I followed behind, my eyes locked on her.
My gaze kept dropping to Zee’s round, firm ass. It swayed side to side with every step, the short skirt hugging her curves tightly. The soft cheeks jiggled slightly, looking so smooth and inviting. I hated it. I felt guilty staring at my stepsister’s butt like this, but I couldn’t stop. A strange hot feeling grew inside me—tightness in my chest, warmth between my legs.
I didn’t know what this feeling was. It made me ashamed, yet my eyes stayed glued to that perfect ass, watching it move. My breath quickened. I wanted to look away, but the sight pulled me in.
The evening air felt so good, I laid outside enjoying the cool breeze which came from the balcony. I played "Perfect" by Ed Sheeran, singing and vibing along to it.
The lyrics had never left my lips.
It had been my favorite song whenever I went hiking with James, but everything had been ruined now.
Whatever.
I wiped sweat from my brow, my mouth dry and my throat scratchy. Ugh, I’m so thirsty, I thought. I needed water.
I turned toward the house and walked quickly across the yard, up the porch steps, and twisted the doorknob. Cool indoor air washed over me as I stepped inside and headed straight to the kitchen. The kitchen counter smelt like lavender. I grabbed a glass, filled it under the running tap, and drank deeply in long gulps. “Ahh,” I sighed, already feeling better.
I set the glass down with a soft clink, still savoring the cool relief, when I heard it—low, breathy moans coming from down the hall. My stepsister.
What the fuck… Mmhm. This is so good.
Curious and a little worried, I stepped quietly toward her slightly open door and peeped in. There she was on her bed, legs spread, watching lesbian p**n on her laptop. On the screen, two girls were fucking hard—one straddling the other’s face, grinding her wet pussy against her tongue while the second girl thrust two fingers deep into her, pumping fast and sucking on her clit.
My stepsister had her own hand between her thighs, fingers plunging in and out of her glistening pussy, moaning softly as she matched their rhythm. I couldn’t look away. Heat rushed through me and I felt myself getting wet, my panties soaking as I watched her hips buck and her tits bounce with every thrust of her fingers.
I returned three days later, the green-bound Colette finished and still warm from where it had rested against my thigh on the tram ride across the river. The rain had given way to a pale autumn sun that made the wet cobblestones shine like polished glass. I pushed open the shop door and the little bell above it gave a soft, familiar chime.Mara was rearranging a display of poetry near the front window. She turned at the sound, and the smile that curved her mouth was slower this time, more knowing. Her dark hair was loose today, falling past her shoulders, and she wore a soft grey shirt open at the throat, the top buttons undone just enough to show the hollow between her collarbones.“You finished it,” she said.“I did.” I set the book on the counter. “You were right. It still smelled like the binder’s shop.”She came around the counter without hurry, stopping close enough that I could catch the faint scent of vetiver on her skin again. “I have something else for you.”She locked the fr
The rain had been falling since dusk, turning the narrow streets of the old quarter into slick mirrors that reflected the amber glow of the streetlamps. I ducked under the striped awning of the small bookshop on Rue des Lilas, shaking water from my coat. I had come for a first edition of Colette I had been hunting for months, but the shop was nearly empty, the air thick with the scent of paper and wet wool.Behind the counter stood a woman with dark hair pulled loosely back, a few strands escaping to frame a face that seemed both sharp and soft at once. She looked up from the ledger she was writing in, and her eyes, a deep hazel that caught the lamplight, met mine.“You’re dripping on the first editions,” she said, not unkindly. Her voice was low, with a slight rasp, as if she had spent the evening speaking little.I glanced down. A small puddle was forming near the glass case. “Sorry. The rain came faster than I expected.”“It always does here.” She closed the ledger and stepped arou
I pushed through the glass door of the café on the corner of 9th and Willow at 7:12 on a Tuesday morning, messenger bag heavy with ungraded papers, and claimed my usual corner table by the window. The place always smelled of roasted beans and rain-damp pavement, even on dry days. I ordered the same thing I always did—a double espresso and a plain croissant—and opened my laptop to the stack of first-year essays waiting for my red pen.I had been coming here for three months, ever since I moved to the city for the adjunct position at the community college. Most mornings the place filled with the usual mix of remote workers and students. Today a woman I had never seen before sat two tables away, laptop open, a half-eaten almond croissant beside a ceramic cup of something dark.She looked up when my chair scraped the floor. Our eyes met for half a second longer than politeness required. She had short black hair cut close at the sides, a small silver hoop in one ear, and a mouth that looke
The cold settled deeper into the city that week. Frost etched the bakery windows by morning and the motorcycle seat bit through denim by night. Mara showed up on a Thursday with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a look that said the warehouse was finished for the season. The roof had finally given out under the last hard rain. Water stood in black pools across the concrete floor. She did not explain further. She simply handed me a key on a plain metal ring and said the address once.It was a third-floor walk-up on the east side, the kind of building that still had the original iron fire escape and windows that rattled in the wind. The apartment itself was nearly empty. A mattress on the floor. A single lamp. A kitchen that worked. The radiator clanked like it was arguing with the pipes. She dropped the bag by the door and turned to me while I was still taking off my coat.“Stay,” she said.Not a request. Not quite a demand. Something in between.I stayed.The first night in the
The first thing I noticed was the smell of burnt sugar and wet asphalt rising off the pavement like it had been left out in the rain on purpose. I was already late for the night shift at the all-night bakery when the woman in the red coat stepped out from behind the dumpster and asked if I wanted to see something that would ruin my life in the best possible way. She did not wait for an answer. She just took my wrist and pulled me into the alley where the sodium lights flickered like they were embarrassed to be watching.Her name was Mara. She said it once, low, while she pushed me against the brick wall and bit the side of my neck hard enough that I tasted metal in the back of my throat. I should have shoved her off. I should have walked back into the fluorescent safety of the bakery and punched the dough until my arms burned. Instead I opened my mouth and let her tongue slide in, thick and insistent, tasting like black coffee and the sharp edge of something electric. Her hands were a
The soft knock came just as I was about to turn off the bedside lamp.“Are you still awake?” her voice asked through the door, low and a little rough from the late hour.I sat up against the pillows. “Come in.”The door opened and she stepped inside, closing it behind her with a quiet click. Elena stood there in one of my old shirts, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. The hallway light caught the curve of her collarbone before she crossed the room and sat on the edge of the mattress.“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Kept thinking about earlier. About how you looked at me when I was helping you with the dishes.”I reached for her hand. “I wasn’t exactly subtle.”She laced her fingers through mine. “No. You weren’t.” Her thumb stroked the inside of my wrist. “I’ve been wanting to touch you for weeks. Every time you lean past me in the kitchen, every time you laugh that soft way you do when something actually amuses you… I keep imagining what







